Page 59 of The Bright Side of Christmas
My words stop, my mind going blank at everything but what he just said.
That’s what you do when you’re seeing a woman and know there’s something there.
“So if your family asks—” he starts, clearly not stuck on his previous statement the way I am.
“When,” I correct with a sigh, trying to focus on the topic at hand. “There is no universe whereno oneis going to ask. They might wait to strike when they think I least expect it, but the question is coming. I’m the baby of the family, with two older brothers. It’s impossible to get around that.”
He chuckles, then corrects himself. “Okay,whensomeone asks, what do you want the answer to be?”
“What?”
“I don’t know how this works, Wren, if you haven’t figured this out. My dating life hasn’t been…typical. I’ve never been with a woman who lives in a small town with a family that cares about her. I’ve never had to meet the parents.”
My head snaps to him, and my pulse pounds. “You’ve never met the parents?”
He gives me a sheepish look, a light blush blooming on his cheeks. “Rock star and music mogul lifestyle doesn’t really lend itself to that, Birdie.”
“Oh,” I say low, and bite my lip. After the snowstorm, I searched for Adam Porter using the new parameters and the intel I had and brought up page after page of him in LA at restaurants with big stars, as well as a few rumored dates and girlfriends. Some musicians, some producers, some freakingmodels, but all of them next-level gorgeous and put together. My breathing quickens as my pulse pounds, and I realize just how different we are.
“Erase that look, Wren.” He reaches over and grabs my hand, gripping it right. “Right now. I haven’t dated anyone in well over a year, and I'm not sure if any of my past relationships could be considered truerelationships. I promise I am more out of my depth than you ever will be. I’m here with you because I really fucking like you, Wren. I appreciate that you don’t view me as a stepping stone, nor do you seem to care about my past or potential future accomplishments or how they might benefit you. I like that you haven’t changed at all since you found out who I am. The only thing you seem to be using your wiles for is to see if you can put Christmas lights on my house, and that is refreshing. It’s why I’m here with you, on my way to your parents’ Christmas tree farm to chop a tree down in the freezing cold.”
I glance over at him and smile, though his eyes are on the road.
“Now, tell me, when your parents or your brothers or whoever asks what we are, what do you want me to respond with?”
“I don’t…” That panic returns, with a different font but the same pulse-pounding result, as I try to decide what I think he wants to hear. Does he want me to say we’re together or not? Idon’t want to push things past what he’s comfortable with, but we really haven’t?—
Suddenly, the car veers off the road, and Adam brings it to a stop, putting it in park before turning to me fully. He reaches across the console and slides his hands into my hair, pulling me close and pressing his lips to mine.
“Nothing you say will be the wrong answer, Wren. I’m trying to see where your head is at with this, not send you into a spiral. I don’t want you trying to weigh your answer against the answer you think I want to hear, okay?”
“I just—” I whisper, but he cuts me off.
“Let me give you my thoughts first, okay?” Some of that nervous panic leaves me. “I want to be with you. I want to be yours. I would be very much okay if we walked into their home hand in hand and told your family that I’m your boyfriend, even if I’m thirty-five and that makes me feel like I’m seventeen.”
“What term would you prefer?” I ask without meaning to.
“Yours would suffice. Or your man. But that’s not the point right now, Wren. The point is, in my perfect world, you’re mine, and we’re together, no matter what you title it. But the truth is, I don’t think I’ve ever been aboyfriend, so I don’t know how to do this properly. If you’re not ready for that, then?—”
“No, no,” I say, shaking my head at him. “No. I um.” I bite my lips, nerves fluttering in my belly.
God, why was it easier to ask Tim Higgins to the Sadie Hawkins dance in seventh grade than it is to tell a grown man whose face I have sat on that I want to be his girlfriend?
“You have to use your words, Wren. You’ve gotta tell me what you actually want.”
His words remind me of many other circumstances where he’s said that to me, and it sends liquid warmth to pool in my belly. It also gives me the jolt of courage I need. I take in a sharp breath, and satisfaction spreads over his face, like he knowswhere my mind went. But I’m stubborn, and I don’t want him to win this, so I just glare.
“We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on in your pretty little head. Tell me what you want, Wren.”
“I want you to be mine,” I whisper.
He smiles at me, the real one, the one that meets his eyes, the one that he always gives me any time I tell him an honest answer. He leans in, his hand going on my jaw, his forehead resting on mine.
“Then I’m yours.”
“Hey, Mom,” I say, walking into the kitchen of the house I grew up in. It smells like cinnamon and pine trees andmy childhood,and when I see her reach into the stove to pull out a giant tray of cinnamon rolls, I fight back an excited squeal, knowing I'll be sent home with some. At the kitchen table are my two brothers, which tells me my niece Emma is probably in the playroom. My dad is nowhere to be seen, which means he’s probably out preparing for when the farm opens at two. Madden and Jesse are probably supposed to be out there with him, but they are biding their time for what I know is coming next. “Jesse, Madden.” They both give me grins, and I roll my eyes.
“Hey, sweetheart,” my mom says, coming over to press a kiss to my temple before turning to Adam. “And you must be Adam.”
